


After Dusk, The Dawn

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Winter Falling [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes-centric, Cuddling & Snuggling, Double Penetration, Dry Orgasm, Gay Sex, Gentleness, Healing, M/M, Marking, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Post-Black Panther (2018), Rimming, Size Kink, Spanking, Teasing, Thor (Marvel) is Not Stupid, Top Thor (Marvel), Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, hole stretching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-21 21:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13749780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: Hot on the heels of mind-blowing sex, Bucky wants nothing more than to push his boundaries further. Thor is only too glad to give him all that he can take.





	1. Chapter 1

Hours he spends tucked away safely in a bed larger than his first apartment in Brooklyn. Asgardians do nothing on a modest scale, and their guest room would not be out of place in a six-star hotel somewhere in the Gulf States. Though absent of windows, the opulent chambers offer every comfort battered flesh and aching limbs could require. For a lengthy convalescence, the ultrasoft sheets woven from the fur of a nigh-mythical ungulate native to Vanaheim’s forests and the plump pillows promise the very sweetest of dreams.

Fresh linens hold a faint fragrance. Below the clean crispness of them, a dash of green coriander and a medley of balanced woods, robust but never heavy. Cedarwood traces the reddened frame, not altogether cold. Never cold here, the temperature cozily warm. Just the sort of place to recover from rough, soul-searing sex with the god of thunder.   


Not the first time Bucky has overnighted one of the finest, posh clubs in the vicinity of Greenwich Village, but this beats any recent sleepover. His body sprawls across the mattress with room to spare, even in spite of his vibranium arm extended for one of the down-capped archipelago of pillows dislodged during his rest.

Neither has he shared his bed with anyone, much less his boss. A boss who so happens to own the club and the fealty of its mostly valkyrie staff. The same man destined to be the king of Asgard, the All-Father, has spent the better half of the last night sprawled beside him. Thor has remained in arm’s reach over all that time.   
  
How long for the serum to cover up the scars and bruises, to brighten the colourful mosaic imprinted upon willing flesh? Whatever bastardised variation developed by Department X and the Red Room's finest scientists lacks, it still possesses kick enough to remove bites and bruises sucked to the surface. Their waning hue may be observed over a course of hours, if only there was someone to watch.

Sleep drifts in and out, carried on a moonlit tide. Small signs will become evident to Bucky not long after he wakes that other occupants have drifted through on light footsteps. A freshly laundered t-shirt lies folded up near the pillow to replace the shirt he lost along the way, joined by a pair of slacks to compensate for his jeans stripped off in the hallway by Thor’s impertinence. Water sits in a pitcher next to a glass.

His own need for slumber banished hours earlier, the golden-haired god of lightning sits in a chair in the corner. If not for his stark nakedness, Thor might seem contemplative, awaiting a summons to rush off to the next Avengers mission. His body glistens as though oiled, abdominal muscles rippling as he flexes off the chair a fraction, pulled upwards along with his strokes. His is not a look of boredom but distracted nonetheless, driven to take his formidable shaft in hand, toying, and teasing.

Enough to keep himself hard without crossing that line, he takes his pleasure while watching his battered partner recover from the trials of the previous evening. Watching the bruised fingerprints upon Bucky’s legs above the knees vanish has simply inspired him to contemplate laying more down, as much as seeing the swollen redness between the man’s buttocks fade to a gentle pink stirred something nameless and powerful in Thor’s thoughts.

The mind in front of him is reduced to dreaming stillness. That utter, overwrought exhaustion and the resources devoted to healing him are enough to subdue even Bucky's nightmares. Still as the effigy on a tomb, he rests, dark hair spread on the pillow, the bruises fading out with the slowness of a flower unfolding -- imperceptible to a mortal's direct stare, but different with each incremental check. Not yet gone, though.   
  
He comes awake suddenly, but with neither jerk nor gasp. The blue eyes open, fix on the ceiling, and for a moment, there's a sense of that other presence in the room. Thor hasn't met  _ him _ yet, the otherness programmed into Bucky’s mind by Soviet scientists under Arnim Zola’s instruction. Not at the fore, but there he is. The disturbance of the last night enough to give the Winter Soldier a look out of those eyes, fixing on the god with curiosity.   
  
Thor maintains that light stroking pattern until Bucky awakens, his sharp gaze taking in every detail through the subtle glaze of pleasure darkening his mien. He does not smile to find the creature of white jade and diamond ice staring back. He can tell something is off and soon finds the difference. Bucky lacks the calm satisfaction or the hazy longing that might be expected from a lover totally satiated.

His hand ceases to move, shifting for his forearm to rest upon the upholstered arm of the deep seat. Light leaking under the doorway vaguely silhouettes the Asgardian, backlit through a corona of comforting copper warmth. Lamps about the room barely elevate the atmosphere to intimate, dialed right down to the faintest glow that reveals an eyebrow sliding higher. Is that a canine flashed in a grin?

"Yes?"   
  
A long stretch of silent regard. No clear comprehension. The Winter Soldier knows hurt and deprivation as a sommelier knows his varied vintages. But that particular one, pleasure wrought to the intensity it flashes over into an analogue of pain, is alien to him. That it'd be sought out, begged for -- that's a puzzle to that lupine mind. Recognition of a threat beyond his ability to deal with or escape is enough to keep him still, quiet, reassembling things.

Long history with his brother and the endless machinations of politics have taught the prince a thing or two. Thor bides his time as he awaits a response, finding none pending. The frisson of wariness creeping up his spinal column resembles the response Loki instills in him.

The Winter Soldier is gone again, into sleep or unconsciousness, without an answer.

Watching him, Thor rakes his hand through his hair and strokes his jaw, waiting for a pithy response or more. When nothing immediately comes, he lifts himself from the chair, stalking around the room. The padded carpet absorbs the fall of his bare feet, and the only solution for the restlessness knotting in his belly apparently lies in the shower.

Maybe he’s tempting fate. Being attacked in the shower is a new one, even for the god of thunder. He chuckles softly under his breath as he steps into the cavernous bathroom.

The shower takes precious little time to complete, a matter of washing off grime than relaxing. Thor has never been one to appreciate those little luxuries. He emerges wet, a towel wrapped around his waist, casually buffing off the droplets scattered across his torso like diamonds.   
  
A little more time, and there's a shift on the pillow, a waking from a far more natural sleep. He doesn't smile when he spots Thor, but the weary warmth in his eyes is all Bucky.   
  
“That’s better,” he announces, a low burr rasping his voice. A grin comes easily to Thor, but he takes no risks with who might be in his bed right now.

Winter Soldier? Bucky? He levels a direct stare with a hint of dominance and threat concealed in the good-humoured sky-blue eyes.    


Truth told, all Bucky can do for a moment is watch. Sleep flies away, skewered by a bruised pang of lust.

Thor rolls his shoulders, tossing the towel down. He sits on the mattress, the wooden frame barely making a noise under their combined weight. The bed is sturdy, meant to weather the punishment of an Asgardian -- even someone of the god of thunder's strength.    
  
Bucky’s expression comes alive at that question, as he realizes exactly what situation he's in. Under Thor's roof, in one of his beds, well-rested enough not to find the prospect of moving terrifying or painful.

The fact that he has on socks and boots and exactly nothing else beyond bed linens is enough to make color come rushing into his face.    


That smirk lives in actuality, changed, tempered by laughter crackling in Thor's warm tone. "Still hungry?"

A feral light smoulders in Bucky’s eyes: none of that cold consideration, but that gleam of wildness. Then he's sitting up, not without a wince -- the worst of the bruising was never visible to begin with, after all -- turning, and holding out his hands to Thor.   
  
The god of thunder lies just outside the reach of Bucky's grasping hands. He takes the measure of his guest in a moment, blowing out a laugh as rusty as it is delighted.

"Rough," he makes a question nearly rhetorical with that reflective tone, contemplating futures, "or appropriately restrained?" Guest’s privilege to decide what he wants, even as Thor plants one knee on the mattress and leans over, so inviting that Bucky strokes his forearm and the fine golden hairs tickle his palm.

He lets his hands fall, devoting himself to untying and kicking off the boots. They fall to the floor in a pair of thuds, followed by socks. Otherwise, reduced to waiting stillness, but the kind of silence that sings with energy.

"Your choice," he says, deferring, if not without thought. His voice is hoarse, cracked still from those earlier efforts   
  
"Confess what you crave." That much has an element of an order, just this side of demand. Thor pulls aside the cotton shirt  and slacks left by the pillow and carelessly flings the garment back to the chair, where it lands in a heap, marking the spot absented. They won’t be needing that for now.

One could prowl, beating about the bush, but not his style at the moment. A certain tilt to his head leaves those eyes cast into pools of darkness, embraced by the charcoal shadows that highlight the dramatic uplift of his cheekbones and severe, angular countenance.   


“You.” It wouldn’t behoove Bucky to lie.

Thor grins a little wider. All a play of the light, but sufficient to possibly mark a certain shot of dread for someone wise enough to know to run.

For those who don't, the action explodes out of the formerly still god. One hand at the back of the neck flips Bucky onto his stomach and pins him down, fingers broadly kneading into the muscles and ribs.a

An idle caress runs along the trough of his spine, meandering around the vertebrae marked as hillocks under such smooth skin. Whether or not Bucky fights, that long stroke intentionally loiters, dawdling, inevitable in its descent.   
  
And Bucky does fight....

Well, resists, just a little. The muscles along the spine knot and flow, the shoulders the same, the metal shifting over itself like dragon scales. Not enough to lie there passively. 

"This," he says, simply, voice not yet stretched to breaking. "Take me. That's what I want. The more you do, the more I want it. I don't understand it, but that's what." Pale skin, wire beneath it -- there are even fine lines linking in to the upper part of the spine. Anchors throughout him, lest the arm end up detached as easily as a lizard's tail. 

Flushed skin is quenched under a stroke of the tongue, catching the taste of him. Thor remains silent, goading the verbal reply or simply too distracted to add his own thoughts.  


That touch, that order, prove enough to render him far more voluable than usual, if far from eloquent. "I have a girl I love more than anything," Confession in earnest. "We're lovers, because you broke the last of the programming, the parts Shuri couldn’t reach, and set me free. But now it's like there's something else in me, too, and I'm here because I want to be." Confused, but not guilty or ashamed. Bewildered.   
  
Thor sighs, the sound of a man trying to explain something very complex in simple terms. "Humans are complex creatures. Your societies are so strange. Listen to some of you and they say binding yourself to a single person is a fool's gambit. Then others proclaim that monogamy is the natural and necessary for a healthy society to function.” He strips back the sheet, laying it flat. “We have the better of it in Asgard: do what makes you happy and stop troubling yourselves over such minor matters."

Dark hair flashes against the pillow, sprayed out as Bucky tosses his head left to right, seeking a better view. He can scarcely do much else, blushing hotly as his knees are shoved into a bend. Momentary resistance to straighten them generates an appreciative chuckle, dark and full of plum heavy promise.

Oh, fight, and Thor leans down, applying his weight as a counterpoint to those struggles, however mild or furious. He shifts in erratic ways to earn a temporary pin or counter a punch, anticipation purely measured from body language and the thrill of something to wrestle with, someone worthy of him.    
  
He inflicts his hand between Bucky's thighs, sliding fingers up beneath his stomach to the very rim of his navel. A startled noise ripped free evaporates into the pillow as weight lurches forward onto his shoulders, his hips cantilevered up so he lies in a wedge.

They both pause. Realization of his vulnerable spread strikes Bucky down. He blushes hot, a prickling tide that trails down his throat.

Weight overshadowing him retreats, the departing shadow leaving him beautifully lit by the warm lamplight diffused through the expansive room. No longer pinned, the soldier is naked, exposed, and spread entirely of his own volition.

That’s almost as arousing as the palpable weight of the Asgardian prince’s gaze fixed on his bare ass, and probably his hardening cock.

Quietly, Thor groans. “Barnes.”

The invocation of his name shatters the deepening stillness.

"I’d be disgraced if I could not inspire a mortal warrior, or warm your heart." The Asgardian chuckles again, cagey fingers sliding down Bucky’s belly and his hand pulled completely away. 

Only for a moment.

The mark of rippling air gives away possibilities, and incipient awareness of danger flares in alarm. Bucky stiffens, too late, quick to anticipate but not as fast as his boss. The strike lands flat and hard on his dusky star, thrice in a row, flat of the digits applied for a solid rebuke. An offering for what he needs, what he wants.  

Not something Thor explains further, dipping his head and grazing his tongue over the flystung ring. His taste is unhurried, the return of his tongue flickering over the quivering muscle agonizing in its slowness and landing pressure. That's how it's going to be.   
Breast to the bed, but knees drawn up enough to raise his hips. Already stirring, indeed. A flinch at each blow, gasping, and there's a bunching of the linen as his fists curl. Token struggle, trying to get a hand under himself to roll his body over, not mere acceptance, into shivering quiet at that latter caress.

"Yes," he says, almost gently. Agreement, or plea, or commentary.   
  
Bucky’s hands are free, for now. No impediment to attempting to turn over for a moment. His fingers curl and he pushes up. Kneeling behind him, Thor wraps an arm around the breadth of his leg, pulling and drawing him askew.

Following the shallow trough of the spine, his other palm slides between Bucky’s shoulder blades and drives down to hold the soldier pinned to prevent a forward crawl or lurching away. Between the diagonal forces, where can he possibly go?

Lunging onto his collarbone, Bucky sweeps his arm forward to knock a mountainous pillow out of the way. A handhold on the cedarwood headboard offers proper anchorage.

Thor smirks. He distorts social morals by lowering his head, slowly traversing the puckered star in languid revolutions of his tongue. His face buried into the valley between the buttocks, he dips his tongue and draws rough crosshatches.

At times those skilled lips land, and he dares nip the densest collection of surface nerves in the vicinity. Nothing sharp and short, as willfully inflicted on Bucky's shoulder earlier, but decided punctuation to add a subtle dimension of chaos upon seduced, ringing nerve endings soon enough bathed back under his tongue. Sooner or later his fingers are coming back, to spank, and one to slide in, but not quite yet.   
Still bruised and oversensitive from their earlier bout. He's subdued into shivering anticipation. The bites call up little jerks in response. Face muffled into the pillow by the weight of that hand. He can't really see what Thor is doing or about to do, and that just makes it worse.    
Even the muffling of down and linen isn't enough to hide the heaving of his ribs, the way the bow of his spine deepens, the shift of hips in willing exposure.   
Golden hair brushes in feathery teases over bared skin. Thor tugs his arm closer, bringing along the captive leg, and pulls Bucky far more onto his knees. All the better to allow the liquid trails imparted by hot lips and smoldering tongue to trail from the weight of his deeply ridged testes up to the northernmost point of his puckered anus.

Around and between, paths painted in infinity loops and figure-eights cannot be entirely predicted. Thor ignores anything contrived as regular movement, delighting in keeping his lover on his proverbial toes.

He occasionally substitutes a finger thrust cleanly through the protesting muscle with the application of the others externally stretching the tensile quality of the slightly swollen muscle to its near utmost. If he seems hellbent on softening up Bucky’s ass, it’s only fair given how much larger than the cock bound to be sheathed within as soon as possible.

Only then does Thor resume with rimming and sucking, building an image of splendour defiled.    


Quivers of pleasure, thighs tightening, the tendons of the knees coming out in stark contrast. The gloss of sweat has begun to reappear along the lines of his back. Penetration makes him gasp, clench, which only increases that maddening friction.

Another nip and one presented finger doubles. Those digits glide in and out, thoroughly lubricated with saliva, holding firm and still until Bucky arches in earnest, taking for himself what is so liberally offered.   
  
The soldier begins to push back, hands bracing, palms slipping and skidding on the bedclothes. With Thor pulling him back, he can't  _ quite _ reach the headboard to brace in his current posture. Thor's name is an offering, albeit one half-stifled against the end of the pillow.   
  
Small mercies, in the name of the gods. The next nudge shoves Bucky up the bed, across spindrift sheets, unkind at the general force. Enough for his hands to grip the cedarwood and reduce the dense posts to kindling, but the effect will suffice.

Somewhere nearby is a nightstand stocked by basic toiletries. He’s within reach of the lone drawer if he reaches out. Bucky twists in a muted effort to free himself, testing how firmly he is shoved down.

"Grab the lubricant." Dark and low, skirting just the volume above a whisper, that demand upon Bucky may or may not reach his ears. Compliance invariably transforms into a pinch of a thumb along his perineum, the muscular bridge grazed by blunt nails. Thor swats lightly at the mortal’s ass, stinging taps for every second beyond the first three taken to register the words.

Bucky does as ordered, rattling around in the drawer until he comes up with a tube. He skims it back in a metal hand, offered blindly. A throat still raw from earlier has little mewling cries catching, hitching, making him cough -- and doesn't that feel different, transmitted through those fingers -- at each tap.

Thor drives his finger steadily inside, hooking and curling, his tongue rough along the contracted edge. He pauses only long enough to take the lube, setting it aside. No doubt for infernal purposes conducted by divine hands, later.    


That passed back, Bucky locks his hands around the headboard. There will be fingerprints there, too, the left marred by fingers far less yielding than any wood. Back still bowed in a feline stretch, knees hitched wide, he leaves nothing hidden. His hardness is unmistakable, cock swaying for every good thrust. A good thing he's down on his knees, lying on his chest. Those tremors are of the kind fit to spill him on the floor, if he tried to stand.

“Relax,” Thor says. It never really was a very fair request in the first place, especially given that devious interplay between fingers twisting to drill deep into Bucky as they can possibly go and the quicksilver tongue scribing new routes, too.  

The hand planted midback refuses to let him rise much further, which is just the way Bucky wants it. Rougher noises are being torn from him as he's steadily, slowly reamed into readiness for the third digit to be wedged in.

His hole is slowly flaming while rimmed, the heated rim cooled by Thor’s breath. “ _ Fuck _ .” The mistaken chill forces him to tighten up around the two thick digits scissored apart, leaving him open to the air.

Again he wants, needs more. His cock is rigid and eager as it points to his belly. What attention he wants on the bruised spot that Thor focused on the night before is denied now, deliberately avoided.

The tube snatched from his fingers leaves no trace behind initially. Only the brief pinning by the powerfully muscled arm to his lower back until Thor gets the lid off. Contents, cool and slick, pour out liberally in the viscous, smooth cascade right around neatly splayed fingers.

Right into his pucker, the gaping pink center.

The fullness hurts a little, nothing Bucky can’t take -- and he learns he can take so much more than he expects -- but the redundant slickness adds to the saliva already leading the way. Nothing magical about that glide, except the press of a third digit. The trinity forms a narrow cone driving down into him, twisting inwards, leaving no nook or cranny unvisited.    
  
Thor watches as the soldier shudders and flattens against the bed, hoisting his hips even higher to be drilled. A sacred trust laid out: the prince of Asgard refuses to treat him other than reverently.

Going slow is good for him but torture for James Barnes.

Glacial epochs come and go between the thorough delving and when the vertical movement begins. Ceasing to twist his fingers in against the clinging muscles, Thor pushes down, smacking his hand down on a cushioning buttock every time. 

Bucky is assaulted from other angles, inner thigh licked and bitten far harder than any tender flesh caught between appraising teeth. When lips leave, the god of thunder kneels to reach new territory. He wants to mark the untouched stretch of upper back beautifully presented to him, and his leg slides firmly betwixt Bucky's thighs.

Bucky groans, deprived of words. Added friction and distinct pressure level another sort of stimulus upon his balls, gliding back and forth against the untouched, stiff length of his cock.    
  
Oh, that choice, when leaning over Bucky. Kiss and bite at his spine, or pull his hair to make the arch truly and utterly obscene? Both, please.

Thor plays the soldier like a harp, skillful in his fingering of the strings, for all their movements are choreographed to extremity. "Good. Push back. Fuck me back," such a simple statement, lips to skin. "You're taking a fourth finger before I give you my cock."   
  
"Uh huh," Bucky agrees. With that grip on the bed posts, he can take three fingers in his burning ass. It feels good, too good, and demands every ounce of focus he has.

Back flexing hard enough that in some cases, the cable woven with muscle can be seen. Impaling himself on those fingers to the accompaniment of moans no longer stifled, he rocks his hips in such a way there's welcome friction against that offered thigh. No one's here to hear them.    
  
Fingers in his hair and his neck arches back, a horse reined hard, even as the skin over his shoulder blades is left twitching from those bites. Played like a harp, indeed, all his nerves singing to any touch of the Thunderer's hands.   
  
Cruel, cruel world. The sinuous twirl and feverish dance between them calibrates down to the very slightest increments of movement. 

Bucky pushes back and the slip of the Asgardian's teeth anchor in his shoulder, biting down, leaving a tattoo for only a few seconds past imprinting. Staggered thrusting of fingers curl and pirouette, seeking to reduce all resistance into a whirlpool centered directly upon the soldier's prostate hidden within, that one spot beginning to act as a radar ping for every passing mystery in the night. Once he has its whereabouts, Thor draws the ancient Asgardian script, full of rune forks and gyrating coils, directly atop each time the bottoming out along his knuckles permits.

The smack of his palm is more clap than harm, the more to drive Bucky crazy further into oblivion's velvety embrace. He succeeds at his mission, the incoherent cries braiding around each punctuated clap.

Tremors shake the cedarwood frame of the bed where Bucky pushes himself back, trying to take more faster and deeper. His fingers slide from the wood held in a death grip, and Thor shoves thick fingers in deep, pushing him up to grab again.

Friction makes his cock weep long beads of translucent precum, staining the sheets. He might kill someone just to be jacked off to an orgasm.

Thor curls his arm underneath Bucky's belly and lifts him higher, fit between his spread thighs. Easier, this way, to wrench the loudest, ecstatic cries or groans whenever fingers scissor and separate, or rejoin in the narrowest of arrowhead profiles stuffed in deep. The soldier is subjected to brushes of tongue and lips, violated in that strenuous posture that presents his ass.    


He’s so close. So close he can practically feel his body tensing up, tightening for the violent surges to follow. Thor sees the impending destruction and waylays the outcome.

“Not yet.”

Three furious smacks down on to the fleshiest part of the buttocks land out of the blue, at strength. Those ought to be felt for a time, inflicted without real intent to hurt. The sound alone startles Bucky from his come-drunk haze, blinking.

The possessive anal ring slides along withdrawing digits. For a moment he  _ keens  _ at the emptiness, choking out a desperate cry as his hole tries to shrink down to its original size.

Thor’s thumb, coated in lube, runs semi-circles around the entrance, oddly tender by compare. Pulled free, and then what?

Ten seconds. Fifteen.

The crown of his cock plugs the receding hole properly, poised directly against the besieged rim. The weight pulls down slightly, muscle quivering along the spongy glans. Warning. A promise kept.   
  
There is moaning, some flinching from the sheer overload, and a good deal of keening. But never any attempt to draw away, or shut down those efforts. Far from it -- he moves willingly against that penetration, offering the Thunderer's name in broken pleas. A kind of blind-eyed ecstasy, an inverted echo of the old helpless torments. He did choose to be here, choose this.    
  
His hair's down around his face, back bowed in a prostration that mimics or mocks many forms of prayer. Just the one form of obeisance Thor will accept, perhaps. The smack of hand on flesh makes him jump, but not in displeasure, and his skin is fair enough to leave ruddy marks of the impact. Fingers pulled free and he makes a little sound, stifled by the new pressure.   
  
Poised at the threshold of Bucky's ring, Thor withholds forward momentum. Enough the heavy weight of his shaft presses inwards a little upon the smarting pink rim. Weight and breadth both tease, patiently nudging back and forth, the foreshortened stroke covering no more than half an inch.

Not until Bucky pushes back will there be any forward momentum. His decision again, and he alone dictates what the future holds.

Even if it kills Thor to so close, about to violate the little pucker kissing his cock.

“It’s yours if you want,” he whispers, one hand planted on the bed, the other fisting his shaft in slow, ready strokes. 

Bucky’s sure if the god moves an inch, he might come then and there.

Then that heavy, thick weight lands against his hole, gently spanking lengthwise. He twitches and tightens instinctively. Another smack lands, and another

Thor is a devious fucker, he decides. He’s found one way to make the aching void within totally unbearable, and playfully punish Bucky’s star in the process. Lube glistens on his red, swollen anus. He can’t see it, only feel, only imagining what the god sees.

Now of all times, he thinks of Captain America’s infomercial from ages ago.  _ Never make important decisions in an emotional state _ .

Chances are fairly to pretty likely Steve Rogers never had to think about taking Asgardian cock balls deep in a stroke while being asked to save the world.

Another smack and his ass flares with heat, gently rubbed down to a smoulder. Tiptoeing to ruin, every time he thinks he is going to come, Thor pushes him a little further.

“Thor,” he whispers. “Please.”

A halt.

“Please. I want you.":

It’s all he ever needs to say.


	2. Onwards Until Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor holds the key to demolishing the last of Hydra's programming in Bucky Barnes.

Choice is everything. Someone deprived of decision-making comes to treasure the small things, like sleeping past an alarm or picking a hamburger for dinner instead of spaghetti or pizza. Take away choice, the adult is diminished.

Bucky Barnes knows too much about walking a narrow path at the insistence of shadowy masters, and the consequences of showing any kind of free will. Nightmarish spectres from his fragmentary memories in Soviet Russia still haunt him, born from the days when James Buchanan Barnes shook off the fugue of the Winter Soldier and fought back.

They submerged him every time, using pain and psychological torture to subvert the spark that makes him who he is, and was, a hero of the Second World War, best friend to Captain America, steadfast ally and devilish charmer. A man long thought lost, so recently found.

Some days he’s not sure that James survived the experimentation and the torture, the dingy apartments and the snipers’ nests in forgettable rooftops at cities from Vladivostok to Vancouver. When he doubts, the life he carved out for himself in this twenty-first century sprawl provides valuable anchorage, a safehaven for the tempest tossed.

Steve provides the friendship so long denied and real meaning in life, courting him into the Avengers. He sees the good in Bucky that he can’t see himself.

Nat, his girl, offers the endless well of understanding and dark mirth at the vagaries of fate. She gives him unconditional love behind the featureless mask they present to the public, valuable when he can’t take the limelight.

Thor gives him a job and a routine at one of the best clubs in New York City, blessed -- and cursed -- by an alien perspective on matters. He doesn’t view the world in human terms. Maybe it explains his divine capacity to forgive. Just look at that morally ambiguous brother of his. More than just a day-to-day existence, the god of thunder provides something more immediately significant.

Redemption through forgetting, if Bucky feels particularly poetic. Months ago, Thor broke the programming that made sex another form of pain and fear, using techniques that transformed trauma into whitefire bliss.

Now the head of Thor’s heavy, long cock is beating a three-four tattoo against the swollen red rim of his anus, and awaiting the word that will seal his fate, stretching him on the largest, most terrifyingly perfect dick he has ever seen -- let alone taken -- in his life.

He can scarcely believe his luck in life, but as karma’s plaything, he deserves a few good turns, all told. There still exists a small part of him reluctant, even repulsed by lying on his stomach in a plush bed larger than the typical New York kitchen, practically wedged into the pillows. His dark hair veils his face, head turned to the side.

Tension rises and falls, his metal arm exerting a death grip on the fragrant cedarwood headboard that would be demolished by the strength of his scaled vibranium fingers if not fashioned and forged for an Asgardian god.

Everyone but him at the club is a native of Asgard, the staff an assortment of valkyries, warriors, and skalds all loyal to Thor, loyal to Midgard. The private rooms where they entertain guests from across the Nine Realms have to accommodate their frivolities and excesses, those feasts held regularly and, apparently bed sport.

Thor kneels behind him, patiently waiting for his reeling thoughts to return from the far shores of bliss. Another cock spanking centers on his hole, snug between his parted buttocks, presented at the perfect height thanks to his widely spread legs. Now and then the prince takes a swat with his bare hand for the sheer pleasure of seeing Bucky’s pucker contract, bright pink and glistening under a coating of lube. The warm glow to his cheek and thigh attest to the casual force put into the blows he takes, not enough to hurt, only temper his rise.

Patience won’t last forever. The choice to sleep with Thor -- to _fuck him_ , Bucky corrects himself -- is totally his. Question is, does he want this?

“Please.” His voice, usually so smooth and clear, croaks in a shadow of itself. He reaches back for his buttock, pulling the cheek slightly. Too hard to extract his other hand from the headboard, a sinuous line of platinum scales brightly tarnished in the warm lamplight.

Without a word, a larger palm presses to his knuckles, fingers laced among his smaller digits. So terribly warm and steady, an unspoken extension of the promise between them. He never doubts that Thor understands this, in a way he could never hope to explain to Steve.

Nat, sure, but some paths she leaves him to decipher for himself.

Why he loves her. Why he craves this touch, this promise of breaking himself on the wheel and being reforged into something stronger, if not better.

“I want you.” Bucky feels the burden lifting by even admitting that truth aloud. Be careful what you wish for, the old adage goes, and he doesn’t have long to wait to get what he asked for. All of it.

He wouldn’t have it any other way right now.

Thor grasps his hip to steady him, canted steep on his knees, and pushes him down a little to an even better height. He sighs as tension ratchets up deep in his stomach, anticipating the burning stretch that very well might bring tears to his closed eyes. This isn’t something he can bring himself to watch, and self-blinded, his other senses feel ten times more acute.

Whorled fingers that could snap his prosthetic arm in two wrap around the saddle of his hipbone and guide the fat glans back to the rim of his greedy ass. The weakened ring of muscle gives a little, nursing at the flaring bell-end pointed straight into him. He shivers at the drag, well aware the addition of Thor’s pinky finger during the long, deliberate exploration took him as wide as he’s ever been. This feels bigger.

“Guide me.” Anyone else saying that would make it a command, but here, now, the prince speaks a request, a generous ask that halts if he says no.

Bucky breathes out, willing himself to fraught calm, but he’s so close to the peak that tall order proves near to impossible.

His fingers feel the girth of that shaft, mind unable to calculate other than a protest of dull fear. He has done this before, he can do it again, but the threnody his nerves fire through his fingertips puts a pang of delicious wanton need that obliterates conscious thought. He can’t very well stroke and jack off the magnificent length from the awkward angle. But he pulls, and Thor complies, leaning forward on his knee until the blunt pressure on his hole reaches a red line.

“Oh fuck,” the only proper thing he can say

Bucky controls how long and fast the penetrating strokes go. He struggles to push himself back, opening up for the tip; the widening crown spreads him unnervingly far, eclipsing his impression of the quartet of fingers visited before. _So_ much. There is so much to take, the diameter testing Bucky to the edges of the serum. 

Chafing through the friction detonates fireworks in the back of Thor's skull. Need urges a slow, downward grind stretching around the resisting muscle. Something gives and Bucky moans, thrusting himself back a grand total of two centimeters, feeling the double ring of muscle snap into place. Beyond the crown, the girth pushing past his dilating hole is barely narrower, insisting the clenching ripple of muscle respond and admit its passage.

Bucky is lifted slightly once the angle is established, pulling him back onto Thor’s cock, into his embrace. Strongly muscled arm curled around the mount of his hip bone holds them together, back pressed to the Asgardian's lower abdomen. Taller, a golden spear leaning over the paler mortal, he bites hard at Bucky's shoulder.

The noises that slow penetration gets in response are not the loud moans of earlier, but more of that soft keening, teeth gritted hard. He's shivering with it and still, as he's lifted up, achingly hard in his own right. No longer does he need to clutch his ass, he releases his buttock to favour the cedarwood headboard instead. Still able to grip the bedposts, with a little forward lean, which he tests for a moment. He's going to need the bracing, that's certain. 

Another smack to earn a responsive clenching, brought down more on the flank where a hand gripping the mortal's hip later will not touch bruised skin. "Ready?"

The smack does make him clench, of course, and that's another little sound, pain and pleasure confused. He leans his head back against the prince's shoulder, the difference in their heights only accentuated by the posture.

The bite makes that expanse of muscle jump and tense, before he says, "Yes, please."  
  
Whatever else, Bucky takes no mere man. Thor loses some of his restraint as he thrusts in. Wanton heat leaves him reckless. Discipline folds in the blistering warmth inundating him, the pressure that arrests his momentum for a moment. Hints leak through, the casual strength used to support Bucky against the bed.

Thor’s large hand spreads over his belly in the narrow gap behind his unattended cock, where a modest slap might bounce off smoothed knuckles. The bite to his shoulder holds firm as any wolf, a sizzling tincture for the counterpoint of flames burning much lower. Ruin is on the menu, and ruin offered so.

The first stroke makes him grunt at the impact, lips parting to gulp air, panting. Fingers curled around the bedposts, muscles of back and shoulders taut, he braces himself against this assault. The grip of lower muscle to forestall each stroke is futile, but he can't bring himself to relax into it. Doesn't want to, perhaps, no attempt to roll with whatever pain comes with the motion. 

Their entangled legs don’t stop Thor from attaining leverage, the broadened thigh nudged up against Bucky, forcing him a little wider apart for an ideal angle. The Asgardian prince drills him down into the bed until any further descent would be impossible, reaching back to generously knead one buttock like dough. His fingers sink in to the muscle, squeezing and shaping.

Slow withdrawal teases every nerve, abuses the tempting tight cluster of the prostate under siege from pressure that will never really cease but for the one foray. Pulling back pops Thor’s cock free from Bucky, crown dripping in lubricant, slapping immediately upwards to point angrily for attention.

He strokes himself roughly and hard, fist glossing down the formidable length, the glans freely weeping a drizzle of hot precum in cobwebs over Bucky’s ass. Drops slide down into his swollen hole, drooling onto his balls..

He can’t speak, looking back in turmoil.

“Marking you,” Thor says without preamble, another hot spray painting a rope up Bucky’s thigh.

When they join together again, the warm fluid smears into his skin and rubs over them, more potent than candlewax tipped over to splatter his fair skin. He drops his head, gasping, a reckless pause catapulting him hard up against the need to thrust, bury his cock in molten wetness, come until his synapses fry.

One breathless moment of emptiness ends, as creation began, with the equivalent of a flash of light, Bucky impaled balls deep in a single, hard stroke. Thor settles into a groove of hard, determined use, testing exactly how much he can take without bleeding into pain -- far, anyways. A few stings here and there do not quell Bucky thrusting himself back, unable to keep from taking as much as he can in. Thor mounts him, up on one knee, and all pretext of restraint implodes.

That long night prior taught the prince well what Bucky seems to like and protests, where he might be hurt and how much is too much but still enough. Insistent arms pulls him upright, the better to use the top of the headboard for vertical leverage, and the rapid pistoning that never lets up. The staccato pace slams them together, keeping Bucky pinned mostly in place, given the full length of Thor’s rigid cock on every stroke.  
  
For that peak of pleasure is coming, preceded by waves like an oncoming tsunami, and Bucky issues little ratcheting cries, almost coughs, never able to get enough air for a full throated scream. He jounces over the smooth jackhammering, riding out what he can. Bliss burns with ravaged delight.

Though he pulls sufficient oxygen for a confession, "I'm gonna come." How much longer can he hold out against himself, before he has to fall out against Thor's endurance?  
  
The blond brings his free hand up to the flat of Bucky's chest, spread out wide over his heart. Fingertips converge on the dense nub, plucking first to draw it away and holding firm. No twist, initially, but that follows, rolling the pinched flesh between thumb and index pad until the hot motes of lightning spark another sensation to the intense milieu.

All the while, Thor diligently rocks his hips, launched up from the mattress on the flex of his knees, sinking back down. Bucky is carried along, breathless or not, while the bed's elegy of protest in squeaks and groans never breaks.   
  
The tension fluttering around the grinding length of Thor’s cock is bliss, Bucky's every quiver communicated by a magnitude stronger reaction. Refusing to sink into fiery oblivion only heightens the rebounding penetration, a staccato dance thundering through the narrow portal.

Another pinch and pull means to dislocate any fleeting thoughts, spiking the impending climax all the higher. But not without mercy upon the confessional soldier, in a way. The bite to his shoulder leaves off, tongued once. "Let go. Ah, fuck. That's it, take it and _come._ "

A turn of his head is all Bucky need give to receive a kiss equal to what he's given the prince: hot, wet, hard, a bruising soul-sweep of their lips meeting, as though to goad that final dam to break under the floodwaters behind it. To hell with endurance, all hail the headlong dive to release.  
  
That toying with each nipple makes him whine again, muscles of his chest bunching, back arching into it; little gracenotes of torment in time with the fuller movement below. It works just as intended, straining to keep that kiss even as release pulses through him. Nearly everything below the waist clenches, cries muffled in the kiss but not silenced, not in the least.

Then it's shuddering through him with a freight train's force, the contractions gripping down on that length, sinews of his thighs gone taut again. It is too much, but it's more than he can fight -- there's only a moment of one hand blindly pawing for the headboard so he doesn't collapse.

Balanced as he is, the slightest change might splay Bucky onto his stomach or pull him back against the Asgardian completely. He could just as easily rest his head against the offered shoulder as hang ragdoll limp. Whip crack thrusts ascend in cadence a little higher, notching new speeds, the endless percussive beat pushed up to a soaring ascent.   
  
One release hits, the torqued grip almost makes Thor falter. The response instinctively is to growl retort around the cries in their mingled kiss. He shudders, more of those rippling shocks of static starting to emerge along his loose hair and the golden sheen of his ski. Every excess breath carries a miasma of heat, and that melts through the bones and tensed muscles. Like sitting in front of a fire on a fur rug, reading, or summer reflected down, the aura wavers around Bucky with the added lightning zing of electromagnetism sending the very faintest of thrumming straight up into his core. 

Nothing like being shocked, really, so much as being set to hum at a low level. 

Each little circle spasms the soldier further, as he rests back against the god. The heat and that faint little shock sends those tremors through him, blue eyes blank as a sunrise. Running on reflex, nervous response entirely. Perhaps that's some of the appeal, abandoning control utterly to that golden body.

Thor wordlessly churns in circles as he drills in for a short duration, which might as well last a damn lifetime. Quivering anticipation cracks open. Bucky he holds firm to, and the question lies between their lips. "Close." Truth, in that. "Come in you? On?" He can barely think enough to speak. "Something else?"  
  
The question has to wait a little for an answer. "Come in me," Bucky says, in a hoarse whisper. Then he chuckles, "You're starting to glow." That seems to confirm the theory floated -- the god can't climax without generating lightning at least a little.   
  
Looking back will show nothing human. Not the pristine mouth against his ear, nipping at the outer rim hidden by strands of hair. Not the sculpted body, burnished to tawny perfection. Silver and gold, dark hair and fair strands mingle together. He bites his lip hard, suppressing a fever pang of a gasp.

Autonomous response kicks in action to the response, the inquiry already stoking the flames internally. Thor damn near shivers, tingling, suffering in extremity by the necessity of waiting. He brings his hand up to cup the underside of Bucky's chin, then down to his throat, a loose girdle than anything remotely tight or cutting off the windpipe. Albeit it might seem like the risk is there, limiting his breath. Too risky.

Spread fingers slide lower to support and, just maybe, leave another element dynamically playing between them. The grip on his stomach is even, palm trailing up and down over the silken mess left in the wake of Bucky coming. Two or three deep thrusts taking full advantage of lassitude send Thor teetering over the edge. But something has to be said, and pushing the mortal a little further forward to take advantage of the misused headboard as needed is perfectly appropriate.

Plundering the very depths by sliding through the taut ring gripping him invites a whole world of sensory infusion, overloaded by replete abandonment on Bucky's part. Another kiss on his neck is rough, savage the bite to his shoulder again. His arm spasms, rising to defend his neck, but too late for the kisses to fall.

Heartbeat racing at speeds of saturnine winds, he plunges headlong into the white wall of oblivion. It hurts too sweetly, how his cock is milked by increasingly powerful tremors. Bucky tightens up in anticipation, reversing himself against the diamond-hard shaft drilled into him, bearing down as Thor’s legs push his thighs wide.

Thor’s thirst is an unquenchable thing when hauling Bucky down as he rises, arching, breaking into splintered pieces. In the throes of his orgasm, he shouts loud enough to rattle the painting on the wall. Cum unleashed in gouts fills Bucky. The molten spill spreads in a wave, another, and then nothing awaits but spindrift.  
  
Bitten, bruised, shattered: the mortal's reduced to helpless mewling, but not in protest. It's beyond too much, leaving him glassy-eyed and helpless in the god's hands. The headboard gets another set of fingerprints -- any incident of passion tends to leave marks with that hand. 

He's conscious enough, game enough, to try and anticipate the prince's pleasure. The bruises bloom on neck and shoulder -- a good thing the serum fades them, or he'd spend the next day looking like he lost a fight.   
  
Liquid heat over flesh raw, swollen; Thor coming wrings a few last twitches from him. Then he's simply collapsing back against that immortal behind him, limp as a doll. No more to give, at least without a rest, and almost peaceful with it, confiding his body without a qualm to whatever Thor wants to do.   
Well. There is one more thing he can do by sheer proximity, though this may prove insignificant to everything else wrung out of the soldier up to this point. 

Scarred cedarwood fragrant under the blunt trauma and the scrapes stands untouched. Vibranium-laced fingers pull away from it again when Thor turns around the limp, heavy weight of Bucky's body to face him.

Both hands seated upon his hips push him down, not that the unyielding shaft buried ever so deep in him withdrew very much. Halfway, no more, and yet that retreat brings him gasping in protest and the sudden void.

Careful orchestration of limbs in a dance arranges him facing the right way, limp against Thor, as they settle back together. The grip on his hips ensures that magnificent cock is good and deep. Miniscule rotations rock in circles, enough to keep things at least a proper smolder, for all the overly intense stimulation is processed by overloaded nerves.

Overstimulation goes both ways, for the quivering soldier and the Asgardian filmed in a fine sheen of sweat. 

Spent as Bucky may be, the taste of his skin caught under Thor's lips deserves another kiss here, a lick there. The movement eventually lands on his throat again. There, measuring the beating of his heart, the warm mouth remains. No one needs a heart attack on their hands.

His pulse is slowing already from that runaway pace. No heart attack -- they rebuilt him sturdy enough to deal with the stress of prolonged combat. Still joined, he's looking up at Thor's face with that dumb, animal trust, lips parted.

The prince weaves a caress down Bucky’s tailbone to rest between parted buttocks. Fingertips lightly race along the stretched ring, pressing down to massage the overly stretched muscle, feeling the way it thins around the broad circumference of his cock. Tugging slightly for no apparent purpose other than pleasure's dark edge, he thumbs the beleaguered hole. Succumbing to curiosity? Yes.  
  
Panting at the sensation of that continued pressure on a spot that's already detonated more than once. 'My own good time', Thor said, and that's what the mortal is trying to give. The ministrations of that hand make him suck in a breath, eyelids fluttering. Not even really able to make a sound about it beyond panting. But still no protests, no pleas for surcease, grace the ears. He apparently intends Thor to run him into the ground. 

 


	3. In Morning Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seek the wisdom that will untie your knot. Seek the path that demands your whole being. -- Rumi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Bucky deserves happy endings. No more traumatic pain response to intimacy will be important for his future development.

Hell is empty and all the devils are here, said William Shakespeare, and the bard knew a certain truth in that. If that’s what Bucky wishes, for infernal pleasures to destroy him, so destruction shall come.

After damp hair brushed off Bucky’s face reveals the drawn, calm expression, Thor presses his brow to the younger man’s. “Good,” he says, the only word he can find.

Cheek and chin cupped, Bucky’s face is tilted up to receive a firm kiss. Slow, steady grinding of the cock deep in his ass characterizes a kind of rough blessing while his mouth surrenders, softening under the kiss. By moving fractions of an inch in either direction, Thor applies unrelenting pressure of a humming thunderstorm right on the prostate, hyperfocusing his ministrations upon that besieged spot withstanding so much attention.

Drained is not enough. Another explosion will be coaxed out by patient trials and undermining all resistance. He groans and grins against the warm lips clinging to his when the soldier starts to involuntarily shudder, the tight lines of his back flexing in a prominent web.

 _Found it_. Thor hasn’t forgotten the volume of white, pearly seed that shot out when Bucky came the night before, beautifully tormented by the insistent fingers and his cock bludgeoning the same swollen spot.

Bucky’s prostate gets a proper workout. It’s just a matter of time before he begs for release. The soldier's refractory period is short, it's true, but the Asgardian’s is nonexistent. Not fair, as if fairness entered into any of this.

It takes him a moment or two to see where this is going, to put it together. 

Thor’s fingertip slides along the rim to press down upon the girth thinning the reddened ring, pulling taut, working in a bit of the slickness mixed with the lube. A little more dragged about, here and there, to cool the incipient burn down into a low, steady throb. Meanwhile he thrusts up into the velvet clutching walls, the slow and languid strokes tailored specifically to find the bullseye and pepper the p-spot with so many proverbial arrows that shock will persist. That's one hand.  
The other dips between them, finding the sticky, untouched, and underloved cock that hasn’t been given the least amount of attention all day.

Whatever remaining fragments of programming to translate erotic activities and sensuality into electrified torture go up in smoke under the prolonged siege. Lessons in the clutches of Zola’s demented mind are pulverised by Asgardian deliberation. He relaxes a little as Thor takes him higher, a finger pushed alongside the eye-watering girth.

Pain flares and fades into a molten glow, dissolving another connection. Thor seems to know exactly what he is doing, and later, Sergeant Barnes will marvel upon the subtle assault. Now?

Not a chance, his thoughts blasted by a nova into the furthest reaches of space.

After his apparent indifference, Thor fixates upon the solid, velvety length of Bucky’s cock. The satiny skin radiates heat into his palm, and his fingers close comfortably around it. He almost hums in rumbling pleasure at the weight and feel, adjusting slightly as his gripping hand jerks along the midsection, shifting higher, adjusting lower.

Better to see what makes the man involuntarily fuck him back, risking the tight seal of his anal ring around the phallus stuffed into him to chase down another white dragon of release. Ringed muscles strain against him now, the gasping soldier magnetically led by his painful erection to seek shelter in the warm, teasing fist.

Viscous lube and the remnants of Bucky's climax blend into ample slickness, the hand job enough in its own right to suffice for an orgasm. If that were all the Asgardian prince was going for, game over. But not enough.

Bucky wants to be raked over the coals of his own euphoric inferno, he’ll be happy to oblige.

He settles low and strokes in the most leisurely of ways, in total contrast to the circular rotation of his hips grinding up into Bucky’s rosy backside. He toys with the risk of having another digit sliding in alongside the first, accentuating the stretch until the soldier can’t even utter a whimper, only spray a thick surge of cum with every twitch..  
  
Too tired to lift his hips high, Bucky can spread his legs, mute offering in a dancer's roll out. Thor's hand makes him writhe and pant louder, head straining back. His hair fans over his shoulders, swaying midair. Deprived of the headboard, his arms cling loosely around Thor's shoulders.

He is stiffening again, a twitch for each littler internal circle, the pulse of blood at the prince's direction.

"You'll make me come again," More commentary than question. The scent of mortal musk is heavy in the air.

The blessing of being the god of thunder: relentless endurance. Unfair, that. Thor does have a limit to his energy, but the refractory period is infinitesimal. He labours diligently to sweep out the wreckage left by Hydra in Bucky’s brain, thrusting in microbursts for a minute, then settling back into the shallow delve eroding restraint by millimeters rather than dramatic inches.  
  
"Come until you can't bear it," agrees the Asgardian, and there lies that tempest, the rolling of his hips deep and around, stretching and tugging the reddened ring with aid of his fingers, and the slow, methodical glide of his fist right up to the dusky glans and down again to the root, and up anew. The smile is faint, but present.

Bucky honestly would be happy to die right here, in this instant, certain wherever his tattered soul ends up is worth it for the blistering pleasure immolating him to the quick. He pants, insensate to anything but Thor’s hands.

"Drain you dry for a time in the process." A gift spoken into his ear, lips kissing his neck afterwards leave no quarter.

The privacy of thoughts may be the only thing left to the mortal in his pleasure wracked condition, given he has to pause to tweak and pull on Bucky's nipples again to bring them back to a pert, red flush. Perfect.

"What more can I give?"  
  
"That's plenty," he says, with a hint of sardonicism. The tweaking makes him arch again, and keep on with each long stroke. How much can he bear? However they tortured him in Russia, the idea of pleasure taken beyond surfeit to disgust was not part of it. A lot, it seems.

"Thor," it's a long sigh, head rolled on the pillowing shoulder. No words for what he'd want to say. This isn't love, it's not like the long, sweet afternoons with his girl. The dark back of the shining mirror, perhaps, still an offering, tribute. "What more can I give you?"

This is a slow flooding, rather than the crash of breakers on the beach, body rallying to the god's hand little by little. His face is transfigured by something like wonder.  
  
Thor needs more time to interpret that question, a very real struggle whilst trying to undo all sense in his lover. The wet strokes lavish friction upon Bucky’s phallus, lube welling around his fingers. Somewhere the tube is in reach and seized, the very last of its contents squeezed out into his palm in a shock of cold even if it's room temperature.

“No,” Bucky’s protest comes at a fractured whisper, his hips rocking forward. He needs to bury himself to the balls  _now_. Orgasm is so close, and the lick of cool air on the sensitive tuning fork pointed at Thor’s flat stomach deprives him of reaching that pinnacle.

Patient, the prince reaches between them to take his cock in hand again, twisting his fingers, and caressing all the way down. Fondling the heavy tests leaves nothing without attention; by paying some mild attention to them, he builds to a quicker tempo, efficient and almost compact, drilling up and down on a steady roll.

"Go ahead and swear if you need to," he murmurs before turning his total focus on pushing Sergeant Barnes back into oblivion.

His burning smile joins the unified assault, backside raised slightly higher, and then stretching forward to kiss Bucky again, bruising lips already swollen. Touching the Asgardian, he arches and moves ever a little.

It’s such a soft mutter, someone might miss it over the creaking bed and the slap of Thor’s cock into the blown pink hole clinging smoothly to it.

“Fuck.”

Thor nods, blond hair dappled by sweat. "The dark dreams in your thoughts. The ones no one else can see or give you. What is it you're afraid to ask for?"  
  
A laugh, barely more than the tremors already on their way.

"This," Bucky whispers, between kisses. "I wanted this from you. Because you don't have mercy. Thor,"

Shivering like crystal on the verge of shattering, he shudders, shaft heavy and thick with resurgent lust. The swifter pace has his features pinching again, almost to pain. The kiss is soft-mouthed, all the nerves there singing. Never enough time to let the serum do its work.

Thor can feel him urging that pleasure back, a flagging horse exhorted to stagger to the finish line by its rider's will alone. He does come again, in slower, less percussive pulses -- still the clench and slide of involuntary muscle, shoulders bunching.  
  
Thor is the silent artist for that wrack and ruin, intensely focused on everything: the way Bucky arches or slumps back onto the bed, the tension snapping around him, the very pattern of perspiration flowing off. Far be it from him to break the musical progression that has undone all sense, steadily building but indefatigable in the face of lust given its fill and then a further piece of cake shoved in the greedy maw.

Slower kisses, then, while the pillaging finds new angles and different heights. A finger slides alongside his length again, worked in tandem, the dance of his fist slithering up and down, squeezing lower, milking out the rest of an offering. Good, so blisteringly good, but not quite done, not quite enough. Once blown through the veil of starburst pleasure strung out, there's one more avenue away. 

Bucky’s arms slide away from Thor, his shoulders teetering above the pillows before he finally collapses back. The tilt exposes him to pressures he has never felt in places never so filled, and the sheer sensitivity of being impaled on a tree trunk makes him cry out. Scream his pleasure in a rolling pang, really.

No more than a gilded silhouette, Thor's body hangs suspended over his, offering shelter and another slamming thrust that lifts him off the bed. His head rolls back onto the mattress, the metal wires and fibres interwoven with his skin shunted down into a man-shaped crater. The Asgardian hooks his finger alongside his cock to position Bucky.

The next thrusts he sees for himself, the way his hole stretches to take every offered inch. His weary cock twitches, pearls beading on the slit that end up shaken free to splatter on his chest.  

Another thrust, and Thor pulls all the way free, sliding out like a cork from the neck of a Syrah bottle.  He presses two fingers in all but immediately to keep greed from diminishing pleasure. Good as the battering ram is, sometimes a nuanced, agile approach is just as good.

Spiderweb strands glaze over Bucky's spread legs, fretwork coating Thor’s cock, but he ignores his own nearing climax. He'd rather work the mortal with both hands, apparently, to cresting that liminal boundary of space. So the march of biting kisses and dragged teeth begins, zigzagging from parted mouth to neck to bicep and back to collarbone, nipped stings that circle around the taut bead of the nipple.

He clamps down to suck, and besiege the fallen fortress for another explosion within, painting blind, and layering a sharp, demanding bite now and then to unleash lightning from exhaustion.

The last flaring of a fire as it's breathed on, before it collapses down into embers and then cools to ash. The combination of deft fingers and seeking mouth makes his spine go taut, breath stutter to a halt.

This one, more than the others, looks less like a paroxysm of pleasure than the careful application of shock. The clench and grip akin to pain, the way he bares his teeth, head thrown back, unable to keep from fighting himself. The clench of fists in the linens, before he falls back, limp. Firing dry, it seems, there's only the fine tremors in his thighs to betray the finish.

Left gasping like a landed fish, and looking equally as stunned. "Fuck," he says, surprised.

Shock trailing down the spreading roots of the nervous system is too lush an opportunity to resist. Suction pulls on the captive point to draw blood in, ensuring the ripest fullness, a berry warmth to flesh eagerly lapped and tongued. The bite, out of the blue, spares nothing, firm as any sprung clothespeg to the very base. The serenade coincides with the dry gulch geysering release. Teeth snap the base tightly, almost painfully, to throw askew senses already overcome and attacked from multiple different angles.

Play fair? What's that? Not in a million years and not with a man whose eyes are a black mirror darkly looking upon desires unnamed, in large part.

His prey has barely the strength to resist, moaning freely. The only broken sound for a moment to pass his bruised lips under a procession of nips and bites is “More.”

The predator lifting his golden head assesses the hollowed belly; the heaving bellows of the lungs bring a quizzical measure, old instincts encouraging another measure of assault. His talented fingers not //quite// stilling, Thor flashes his tongue over his teeth. "

I could rather do just that," his answer cloys the ears under layers of dark promise dredged in brandy. Breaking off, he draws down to lick right down the axial line of Bucky's sternum, straight to his navel, stopping exactly two and a half centimeters short of his shaft. A good pausing point, enough to blow across the engorged tip. "No more, or do you wish to be done in?"

That requires serious thought, as he blinks at the ceiling. Body still jerking at the touch of those fingertips, accompanied by a shiver at that breath of cooler air.

"I don't think I can take any more," he allows, finally, voice gone as gritty as a mountain road. Reluctant, that admission, it's so very clear by the way he looks down the length of his body at Thor. Limp with exhaustion, eyes shadowed, lips left fuller from biting, rough kisses.

Proper grit and determination register a faint grin from the prince, overshadowed by the low, burning indigo gaze washing up his body to the very cleft of Bucky's chin, his parted lips, and finally the portals to the very soul as poets love to sing. He feels about the covers piled up to waves, catching on an object left on the nightstand well before.

As Thor withdraws his fingers, a presence blooms in their wake, solid, firm, and not quite warm or cool. Most definitely smooth, as one measures, the contoured glass plug settles in just well enough to maintain a certain pressure on sensitized tissue and the lube-slick ring that he traces with his thumb once. Not exceptional, the sizes, but a filling promise, and a terrible tease.

There's that widening of the eyes, when he figures out what Thor is doing. Bookmarking, as it were. But he doesn't object. A flutter of lashes at the brush of that thumb, entirely involuntary, rather than coquettish.

"As you say." Thor sits up on his knees and straightens, the stretched alignment of his shoulders broadening his ribs and that deep, unnecessary breath shaking off any acquired tension. He rolls his arms in the sockets and a low groan escapes at the popping equalization along his neck.

"Admire your accomplishments nonetheless. You look properly ravaged." His thumb scoots up to the unbitten nipple, tracing it palm laid flat. "For now."

"I think that's more  _your_ accomplishment," Bucky murmurs, still, other than those catspaw tremors at the idle toying with the untormented nipple.

Bookmarking. He's done the same thing to his girl for that matter, on that fateful morning involving an apartment, an unlocked door, and a hazy look of near climax locked upon him as he entered the room. He squeezes around the plug, shocked by how little it gives. Bucky can’t help but grin and swallow a groan.

"Mine? Scarcely. You endured them where others would break or plead for an end." No need for pretty lyrics and twisted vocabulary, the poet's voice to flatter a soldier lying in his bed. Or one of them, anyways. Thor leans over to rub his cheek against Bucky's and nose him, feline, until kissing his ear. "You shake beautifully. Ah, but you've reached the limits. Time for rest. Water?"

Mortal stubble, the flushed warmth of risen blood, Bucky looks a wreck, but a satisfied one.

"Please," he says, simply, turning his head to nuzzle back. Exhausted, clearly, at least in body. Not in the least ashamed, as he rests his metal hand on his belly, fingers splayed.

Water stands in a glass on the nightstand, forgotten. A pitcher is around here somewhere. Thor leans over to grab the handle and pours a glass. It nearly overspills, but who cares? A wonder he’s even sitting up. Satisfied, he thus bestows his gift upon Bucky with a careless fidelity to manners.

"Here." An arm under the neck to help prop him up, if necessary, shall follow.

"Thanks," Bucky says. He doesn't quite need the support, but he won't refuse it, either. Shaking with sheer weariness, now, hair sweat-dampened at the temples. He gulps the water greedily, but not too fast. No giving himself cramps.

Then he's sagging against the prince’s arm. There's even an occasional scrape of plate against plate, nervous spasms translating into the biceps and triceps.

Is there not something so terribly curious about the arm reacting that way, metal on metal, a harmless fluttering dance like a lion fluffing up its mane in the dying sunshine? Water remains accessible, glass left within arm's reach. Not much of a cuddler is Thor, but a steady rock, yes.

This moment of calm in the storm is his to give, for the most part. He sits at the side of the bed, leaning in against the careworn soldier.

Too weary to even roll onto his side, Bucky sighs. His gaze is cloudy, but fixed still on the god. How can it not be, considering the way light reacts, and sound obeys?. He doesn't reach out for Thor, just looking at the warrior. Calming down into at least a doze, by the way his lids are drifting down.

Drowsiness in some ways is better. The god of thunder pauses when Bucky starts to slip away from conscious' near shore, leaning down to kiss him then, and only then, in a lasting, ever so long process until breath must certainly give way and some kind of crack between the fundament and the heavens spills stardust upon the enchanted mortal returned from faerie land. He's released to slumber and dream, watched o'er by a creature elder even to the sandman.

You wake sleeping princesses with a kiss. You put somewhat battered constant tin soldiers to sleep with them. It has him lingering for a last long moment, sighing into it.

Well, lasting temptation is a given. Thor's marked him, physically and otherwise. The bruises will fade. The rest threatens to be more permanent.

Once he falls away into sleep or a very good approximation of it, Bucky once more is left to his own devices. None shall bother him as long as he sleeps; no surprise bedmates, no men busting down doors shooting at him or screaming Russian mistresses confused by the wrong room. Not that the club is a hotel, but the point of sanctuary comes up now and then.

But the privacy within in his right alone, disrupted only by the occasional hum of the fans and the heating system built in. Even that heavy scent of musk and sex slips away thanks to piped in air.

Sleep like a leaden blanket. He doesn't move at all, limp as a puppy in a basket. The bruises fade, yellowing within a few hours. Bite marks wane from raw pinks to purples.

He's got that soldier's facility for sleeping when he can, gone within a few breaths. A waking moment or two, but no inclination at all to stir himself beyond a look around. No nightmares, not even the flicker of dreams beneath his lids.

Undisturbed, then, a last gift free from a visit through the gates of horn or bone. Some benefits are Thor's yet to give, gifts to Midgard.

Time cures all ailments, anyways, and Bucky rests in the bosom of the club until separated from Morpheus' kingdom, free to traipse off how he wishes into the great beyond.

Or not, stumbling sleepily around in the trousers left for him and hopping after a clean sock. The fresh shirt and pants folded in a square rest on the chair with a note, scribed in a bold masculine hand.

_I am here whenever you have need._

He’ll smile, when he wakes to see that.


End file.
